


Of Tigers On Silk

by memoiriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ... and other things, About Sebastian's obsession with India, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memoiriarty/pseuds/memoiriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sebastian's birthday. Finding his birthday present on the kitchen counter has become more like a tradition than anything, but Jim might have taken it a little too far this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Tigers On Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pluppelina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/gifts).



> (Very belated) birthday present for Pluppelina. Hope you enjoy! :)

Jagged rays of sunlight creep through the half-closed curtains. Sebastian blinks and turns away from the window with a heavy sigh, shielding his eyes against the bright light with the back of his arm. It has been thirty-seven years and roughly four hours since he was born into one of the most well-to-do families in London and, like every year, his birthday seems to be starting off on a bad note. He drops his arm back to his side and eyes his alarm clock with a look of disdain. Its green LED-numbers scream at him. Noon approaches quickly and, although he doesn’t expect Jim to show up before eight, Sebastian pushes himself to sitting and rolls his shoulders slowly. His muscles burn after a particularly rough workout the day before, and his skin tingles unpleasantly with the after-effects of too much cheap beer and blended whiskey of a brand just as dubious. He’s thirty-seven. Much too old for chasing tigers and much too young for what few grey hairs are already showing in his dark blond hair. Fantastic. He hoists himself out of bed with a groan, leaving the covers behind in a crumpled mess. 

Sebastian gives the alarm clock one last glare before he reaches for a pair of worn jogging bottoms, his movements slow and unsteady. It takes him a minute to open the balcony doors and he leaves them wide open as he stumbles through his apartment to make himself a cup of coffee. If anything, he’s deserved one. 

It is with a steaming cup in his right hand and a cigarette dangling between his dry lips that he steps out onto the balcony. The elegant silver cigarette case in his left hand stands out against his dishevelled appearance in an almost laughable manner. It’s a nice morning. The sun shines pleasantly, warming his skin and cramped muscles. That, and the familiar smell of coffee and cigarette smoke manage to at least bring a sour smile to his face. Today seems to be nothing out of the ordinary, and it reassures him.

Also reassuring: he has already seen it, on the usual place on the kitchen counter. His birthday present. As he passed it to get his coffee, Sebastian immediately recognised the tacky gold paper Jim takes great pleasure in wrapping his birthday present in every year. For a moment, he’d paused, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as he looked at it. In the early years of Sebastian’s employment, Jim would turn up on the sniper’s porch almost dutifully, bringing an expensive bottle of champagne and the promise of very good company. Now, the present on the kitchen counter has become more like a tradition than anything. Jim of course is nowhere to be found. Also a tradition, it seems. Sebastian has long been suspecting that every year, Jim abuses that one special day to nose about in Sebastian’s apartment, even though he could probably get away with doing so every other day of the year. It has stopped worrying the sniper altogether. He wonders why Jim still bothers, too, but he’s much more interested in the neatly wrapped present on the countertop. Whatever it is that the ridiculous wrapping paper contains, it has to be good. Jim takes almost as much care picking Sebastian’s birthday presents as he does picking his own employees.

Sebastian tightens his grip on the cigarette case and brings it up to his face to have a better look at it; traces the elegant inscription with an unsteady trigger finger, and finally tucks it into his pocket. It’s a gift, too, and Sebastian clenches his jaw, staring at his coffee unblinking. It’s not hard to realise exactly what the criteria for his birthday presents are. He uses the goddamn cigarette case all day every day.

Sebastian pads back inside, leaving the coffee cup on the windowsill even though he’s headed for the kitchen. He smiles to himself. Without the housekeeper around, the place would be cluttered and dirty within no time. Upon entering the kitchen, he is immediately greeted by the large, thin package, the bow and the cartoon tiger card making the entire thing even more ridiculous. He wrinkles his nose as he picks up the card, tossing it aside the second he’s read the familiar scribble inside. 

_“Happy fortieth, Tiger. x”_

Sebastian cringes. Bastard. He sends the bow flying across the spacious kitchen, and Jim’s obnoxious playfulness with it. Drawing a barstool up to the counter, he sits and starts to slowly unwrap the present, the frown never leaving his face.

Shards of indignant thoughts run through his head as he uses blunt nails to remove the scotch tape. He is fully aware of the reason behind Jim’s generosity, and it’s not because the most dangerous man in all of Europe has a soft spot for Sebastian, nor does he care about birthdays. It’s just Jim’s way of rubbing Sebastian’s nose in the facts, and what better day to do so than on his birthday. Sebastian shakes his head, and a flat laugh escapes him. After a rough night and some heavy drinking, he’s made himself too much of an easy target. Jim knows just how greedy he is; how easy to bribe. It was the promise of the gift that had his sniper getting out of bed in the morning, and it is the gift itself that is bound to have Sebastian smile. A fresh bout of manipulation in tacky gold paper, every – single – year.

The whirlwind of thoughts quiets the second the wrapping paper falls to the floor. Sebastian arches his eyebrows as he realises just what Jim has decided to bribe him with this time. Vibrant colours scream at him from right under his eyes. Warm greens and reds, blues and purples. Before him, on the flat surface of the countertop, lies a large, simple wooden frame, containing the sort of painting Sebastian immediately recognises. He squints, furrowing his brows as he taps his index finger against the wood doubtfully. The glass protecting the painting prevents him from being able to touch it, but he doesn’t need to in order to recognise the smooth, delicate canvas the artist used to portray his art on. Silk. He smiles unwillingly, fascinated by the delicate brushstrokes and vivid colours. The swirling decorations along the edges frame the artwork in a modest way, emphasising the brilliant colours of the piece of art. All is hand-painted on the fine silk cloth, portraying what Sebastian knows so well as a Rajasthani tiger hunting scene.

Sebastian isn’t an art connoisseur in any way, but he knows what he likes and more importantly, he knows exactly what lies before him. He knows those warm colours and that spontaneous setting, and he clenches his fists as he stares at the painting in wonder. He remembers the countless original works and reprints he encountered in and around Rajasthan during his time in India, and he remembers the dusty market stalls. The heat, the crowd and the chaos. He brushes the glass where it covers one of the delicate tigers on the canvas and shakes his head, the smile disappearing off his face as he lets it all sink in. Fucking Jim. India is the worst card he can play and he damn well knows it.

Sebastian sits perfectly still for several minutes. He takes in every little detail on the soft canvas. The tiger’s sharp teeth digging into a horse’s leg, the angry, determined expression of the huntsmen, the full green of the plants and trees. Hills and shallow slopes. Although it isn’t exactly a scenery of modern day India – India as Sebastian knows and loves it – his memories are persistent. He misses that place. He’s been careful to not spend so much as a thought on it for as long as he can remember, and here it is, right under his nose. He can’t help the memories flooding back. He can’t help but think of the rides on the roofs of large trucks; of the heat, and the sweet scent that hung in the air once you left the familiar stench of the city. His face is expressionless as his fingers brush over the engravings in the cigarette case once more. For a brief moment, he considers tossing it out, but he doesn’t really want to. Instead, he scrambles for a second cigarette, sticking it between his lips in a hurry. He remembers the wonderfully spicy curries, and the freedom. Staying up late to either work or party. He remembers the women and the burning sun.

The taste of the cigarette calms him down only briefly, the pleasant burn in his lungs fading far too quickly for his liking, and he draws a deep, shaky breath. He gets up abruptly, a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with alcohol threatening the pit of his stomach. He isn’t smiling now. He isn’t looking forward to when Jim is coming over that night, and he sure as hell isn’t planning on toasting to his birthday and going for that inevitable shag. Sebastian can almost taste those curries, despite that rotten imagine of Jim grinning his toothy, twisted grin in the back of his mind; he can almost _feel_ the sun burn his skin. He buries his head in his hands, rubbing his tired, bloodshot eyes, and rakes his fingers through his hair. The dozens of images filling his mind make him nervous – on edge – , and he reaches for the countertop to tap out a rapid rhythm with his fingers, his right foot picking up on it as well. Suddenly, as memories he thought he’d long done away with flood his mind, he is far from Moriarty’s cool, composed second in command. Very briefly, he plays with the idea of going back. In terms of money, he could easily afford leaving. Technically, he could board the first plane to depart, taking nothing but a change of fresh clothes, his wallet and credit cards with him. The cards Jim would undoubtedly cut off, one by one, making Sebastian’s humble fortune inaccessible.

And then there’s the fact that he doesn’t _want_ to leave, not really. To Sebastian, India was and still is a place of warmth and friendliness. Of having the freedom to just arrive a tad too late when meeting someone, and of working hard to complement what little money his family allowed him after the dishonourable discharge from the army. It had been careless to spend his entire allowance on a trip to some place he’d never been before. Even now, as organised and punctual as he is for his job, it’s that carelessness he cherishes. He actually _likes_ that aspect of his personality, it being the only thing he still fully recognises from earlier days. From his careless trip to India, when he didn’t bother to think about the consequences whatsoever. However, he is also painfully aware of what happened by the end of that trip, upon returning to London, and of how easily he’d turned everything around for the worse; how he came back to a place that had him looking for a way out within no-time. A place he didn’t recognise as home. As if he’d never even left.

He won’t hang the painting. He won’t have that image of Jim smiling arrogantly at him every single day - as a friendly reminder of who helped him face the chaos that was London again, a year after being forced to leave his home-away-from-home and the safe and comfortable heat of Mumbai. He won’t have it, and he won’t hear about Mumbai or Pune or Goa anymore. It is as if Jim thinks he needs a goddamn reminder of that time, that’s what it’s like. Sebastian allows himself a third cigarette and inhales the smoke eagerly, tilting his head slightly backwards. This time, the smoke barely even affects his heartbeat, and he extinguishes the cigarette in the ashtray long before it’s finished, grumbling incoherently under his breath.

The idea of seeing Jim that night makes his chest swell up in anger. Who does he even think he is, taking pleasure in buying Sebastian ridiculously expensive gifts every year, laying it on too thickly that there are strings attached, always? The sniper turns his back to the painting and returns to his bedroom abruptly. The mere thought of more liquor makes him feel nauseous, but he does indulge in another sip or two right from the almost empty bottle by his bedside, shutting his eyes tightly and wrinkling his nose in disgust as the liquid burns its way down his throat. Jim would have laughed. Jim would have been _right_ to laugh.

He doesn’t _want_ to see Jim – not that manic glint in his eyes and not that ignorant giggle – but it’s when he forces himself to get out of bed that night and opens his front door that he sees just that, and the sight sends a pleasant shiver up his spine. Jim steps inside – all smiles and empty black eyes – and, immediately recognising the look in Sebastian’s eyes, puts a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. Sebastian knows it was all just part of the plan. He has no choice but to go along with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to BengalTiger for the beta and to Pluppelina for letting me borrow some details from her fics. The tradition of the present on the kitchen counter and the silver cigarette case are hers.


End file.
